Rhyme wheeled forward. The federal crime scene unit--the Physical Evidence Response Team--had analyzed the phone carefully and found no fingerprints. The perp had wiped it before pitching it out of the car.
But the techs had found some trace--smudges of dirt and, wedged invisibly into the OtterBox cover, a short, light-colored hair. Human. There was no bulb attached, so no DNA analysis was possible. It was dry and appeared to have been dyed platinum blond.
"Picture of Ellis?"
A few minutes later Cooper downloaded an image from California DMV.
A nondescript man of thirty-five. Lean face. His hair was brown.
Whose head had the paler hair come from?
The kidnapper himself?
The aforementioned Sabrina?
The door opened and Rhyme could tell that Amelia Sachs had returned. Her footfalls were distinctive. Before she even breached the doorway, he was
calling, "Sachs! Let's take a look."
She entered through the archway, nodded a greeting to all. Then handed over the milk crate, containing evidence bags, to Cooper, who set them aside. He now dressed in full protective gear--booties, gloves, bonnet and splash guard, which mutually protected examiner and evidence.
He set the items out on examination tables, which were in a separate part of the parlor, away from where the others, dressed in street clothing, clustered, to avoid contamination.
The pickings were sparse. Rhyme knew this, as he'd been "with" Sachs, via video feed, as she'd walked the grid at the scene. All she'd found was the noose, random trace from where the abduction had occurred and shoe print and tire mark evidence.
But even the tiniest of substances can, in theory, lead directly to your perp's front door.
"So?" Sellitto asked. "What'd the munchkin say?"
Sachs: "I'd trade the girl--Morgynn--for two of her mothers. She'll be in politics someday. Maybe a cop. She wanted to hold my gun. Anyway, the unsub was a heavyset white male, long dark hair, full beard, wearing dark casual clothes and dark baseball cap, long bill. A little taller than me. Same age as her tennis coach, Mr. Billings, who is--I checked--thirty-one. She didn't know the kind of car except it wasn't a Tesla, which her father drives--and tells everybody he drives. Morgynn didn't catch any distinguishings, but he was wearing blue gloves."
"Damn," Rhyme muttered. "Anything else?"
"No, but this was a first. Her mother, Claire, asked if I--or somebody I knew on the force--would want to moonlight as a waitperson at a party tonight."
"What's she paying?" Sellitto asked.
In no mood for humor, Rhyme said, "First, the noose. Any prints?"
Cooper tested the cord in the fuming tent to raise invisible fingerprints and said, "A few slivers. Nothing to work with."
"What's it made out of?" Dellray asked.
"I'm checking now." Cooper looked at the material closely under a microscope--set on relatively low magnification. He then consulted a visual database.
"I can run the chromatograph but I'm sure it's proteins--collagen, keratin and fibroin. I'd say catgut."
Sellitto wrinkled his nose. "That's disgusting."
Thom was laughing. "No cats involved."
Cooper said, "That's right. It's called catgut but it's from sheep or goat intestines."
Sellitto said, "Why's that any less disgusting?"
The tech was online. He continued, "Gut was used as surgical sutures. Now the only use is musical-instrument strings. Steel and synthetic materials're more frequent nowadays, but"--he gave a shrug--"catgut is still common. Could've come from a hundred stores, concert halls and schools around the area. The length of this one? Probably from a cello."
"And the noose?" Dellray asked. "Isn't it s'posed to have thirteen coils? For bad luck?"